Ora sat on her sofa and regarded him. She said nothing; she was trying to look grave, resentful, dignified—just as Alice Muddock would look; she knew so well how vulgar Babba was and how impertinent. Alas that he amused her! Alas that just now anybody could amuse and delight her! Her lips narrowly preserved their severity, but her eyes were smiling. Babba, having taken a survey of her, fell into an appearance of sympathetic dejection.
"Awfully sorry he didn't come!" he murmured; "I say, don't mind me if you want to cry."
"You're really atrocious," said Ora, and began to laugh. "Nobody but you would dare," she went on.
"Oh, I believe in him all right, you know," said Babba, "because I've seen him. But most people don't, you know. I say, Miss Pinsent, it'd have a good effect if you advertised; look bonâ fide, you know."
"You mustn't talk about it, really you mustn't," said Ora, with twitching lips. It was all wrong (Oh, what would Alice Muddock say?), but she was very much amused. If her tragedy of renunciation would turn to a comedy, she must laugh at the comedy.
"Keep it up," said Babba, with a grave and sincere air of encouragement. "Postpone him, don't give him up. Let him be coming in three months. It keeps us all interested, you know. And if you positively can't do anything else with him, divorce him."
Ora's eyes turned suddenly away.
"Anyhow don't waste him," Babba exhorted her. "I tell you there's money in him."
"Now you must stop," she said with a new note of earnestness. It caught Babba's attention.
"Kick me, if you like," said he. "I didn't know you minded, though."